Tokyo, there was no snow. There was only the rhythmic, deafening thrum-thrum-thrum of the M1911 barrel protruding from Aki’s forehead and the belt-fed remains of his left arm.
Every time "Aki" threw a snowball in his dream, the Gun Fiend discharged a volley that leveled city blocks. He moved with a jerky, mechanical grace, his eyes vacant and weeping. He wasn't hunting Public Safety hunters; he was just trying to "tag" his friends.
"Hey, Aki! Catch!" Denji yelled, ducking behind a mound of snow. Gun Devil (Hayakawa Aki)
The "snow" in Aki's dream began to turn grey, then black. He looked down at his hands. They were covered in something thick and warm. "Denji?" he called out.
Aki scooped up a handful of powder. It felt strange—not cold, but heavy and metallic. When he threw it, the "snowball" didn't arc; it screamed through the air like a whistle. In his mind, he was finally playing the game he had missed with his brother all those years ago. He felt a profound, aching sense of peace. The Reality of the Gun Fiend In the streets of Tokyo, there was no snow
The playground was empty. The laughter of Power and the barking of the dogs had faded into a wet, choking sound. In the real world, Denji’s chainsaw had finally found its mark. As Aki slumped against the ruins of a convenience store, the "snow" stopped falling.
"I think... I'm done playing," he whispered, as the winter in his mind finally went dark. He moved with a jerky, mechanical grace, his
For a single, lucid second, the smoke cleared. Aki saw the blood on Denji’s face—not snow, but the cost of a contract fulfilled. He didn't feel the bullets anymore. He just felt tired.
